


With a Flick of His Wrist

by 1lostone



Series: Experimental Sexual Practices [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Cock Rings, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys Under Clothing, again on my own, does anyone read these? really?, here we go again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1lostone/pseuds/1lostone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIth John's help, Sherlock is able to tick a few things off of his list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Flick of His Wrist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlm121](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlm121/gifts).



> You know that saying that it takes a village to raise a child? Well I think for this fic it took half the internet to answer my questions. With much love and all the cookies to Jlm, diva, thatworldinverted, kiss, sanhaim, and oatmealcoloured.

In the same ‘verse as [Experimental Sexual Practices](648293) .  You might need to read that so that these events make sense: but otherwise... porn.

 

* * *

 

  
It had started with that [damnable list of Sherlock](http://oi48.tinypic.com/2llbksp.jpg)’s.

 

 

It was bloody impossible to forget. Not so much the items that had piqued Sherlock’s interest, (because frankly it would probably be easier to keep track of things that _didn’t_ interest Sherlock, rather than the things that caught his attention) but rather the idea of Sherlock doing half of these things kept John staring off into space, half hard in his trousers at the most inconvenient times.

 

John had rather stupidly thought that Sherlock had been a virgin. Or... no. Sherlock would never have put off a curiosity about anything- even sex. John could easily see him presenting himself to a fellow sixth former with a demand to satisfy that curiosity with very little fanfare. So if not virginal than certainly inexperienced with sex- without relationships. Not that they were in a relationship.

 

Then that bloody list.

 

Really the only problem with having Sherlock’s needs and wants spelled out for him is that John found that he wanted to do them _all the time._

 

**_Home late. -SH_ **

 

Typical. John sighed and rubbed his hands on his thighs before standing and making his way to the kitchen. Habit had him avoiding looking at the carefully organized plastic and glass containers on the bottom two shelves. He’d made the mistake of cautiously shaking one once, and when the eyeball had swum up out of the murky liquid John had almost dropped the fucking thing in shock. It had put him off the refrigerator for _days_.

 

His phone beeped again.  John ignored it for a moment, riffling through a plastic baggie of leftover ham and cheese, and stuffing a piece in his mouth and chewing to free his hands enough to grab his phone.

 

His notification showed a picture message.  John ticked an eyebrow and touched the screen, chewing while the picture downloaded.  He rolled his eyes once he saw what Sherlock had sent him. John was fairly certain that it had some kind of significance to his mad bastard of a flatmate, but the picture made rather no sense to him.

 

Sherlock had given him a close-up of something attached to a key ring; it looked a lot like a bob to unlock the boot of a car, only it only had one purple button on the small dome-shaped piece of plastic. John shook his head, smiling a bit feebly at his phone. Only Sherlock.

 

John settled on the settee, stretching a little and popping his neck. The ‘flu was going around, and John was terribly content to be home, here at 221B with its mismatched chairs and cluttered bric-a-brac. He couldn’t be arsed to actually unclutter the bric-a-brac, and given that Sherlock would probably disembowel him if he binned any of his past case notes, John found himself content enough to just sit in the semi-dark and enjoy the relative quiet of the night.

 

His phone beeped again, and John frowned down at it. By the time he tapped the screen, there were several more dings, signifying several more messages.

 

John was glad that he wasn’t holding anything but his phone when the first image loaded. It was a picture of a small butt plug with a very wide base. It looked to be metallic at the very bottom, and shaped like a short, thick penis. John swallowed hard, trying to force his mind away from the perverted path it had taken.

 

That Sherlock was sending the images wasn’t all that strange to tell the truth. God knew that Sherlock had sent him odder pictures. Still, their sexual relationship was still fairly new enough that John couldn’t help but shift slightly on the leather cushion as he tapped to go to the next picture. John could recognize Sherlock’s large, graceful hands holding the plug, but instead of the plug being the focus of the picture, it was the leather attachment that was connected to it. At the base there was what looked to be three chain links, ending in a strip of leather. John could see that at the other end of the leather there was something just out of the frame, and sure enough when he tapped his screen to go to the next picture John could see that it ended in what was obviously a silicone triple cock ring

 

John blinked. The leather strap had to be custom-fitted. No way would Sherlock buy something that didn’t fit him perfectly. The idea that he had tried it on, that had planned this made John’s breath do funny things in his chest.

 

John was extremely glad that his observant flatmate wasn’t actually observing his reaction to the images. He felt a bit like the cartoon wolf whose tongue rolled out of his mouth, and that was more than a bit undignified.

 

Of course, given that Sherlock was sending him pictures of custom-made sex toys; “dignified” was a fairly relative concept.

 

Another _ding_.

 

A video.

 

“Fucking _hell_.”

 

It was short. Sherlock’s long fingers pressed the purple button on the bob, and the plug vibrated in his hand. At least John assumed it was vibrating. Almost as if Sherlock was reading his mind, John watched as Sherlock set it down on a counter. Against the hard surface, John could hear it buzzing, but against skin it hadn’t made enough noise to be picked up by Sherlock’s camera’s microphone. Sherlock tapped the button twice more, and the toy fairly thrashed around on the wooden surface until Sherlock turned it off.

 

John blinked, reaching down to adjust his own cock in his trousers.

 

He was so busy rewatching the video that John almost missed the text notification.

  
  


**You won’t know when I am wearing it. -SH**

 

John misspelled his reply twice before he managed to send it.

 

**You won't know when I’m going to use it.  -j**

 

John could almost hear Sherlock’s smirk.  One thing was for certain. Sherlock was most definitely never boring.

 

****

 

It didn’t happen right away. Oh sure, John found the remote attached to his key ring. He wasn’t a “proper genius”, but even John could fairly quickly deduce that Sherlock wouldn’t want him flipping the switch when Sherlock was strung out on too little sleep from a particularly busy case. It was probably worth more than his life to interrupt The Work with something like this. And John had no interest in attempting it while he was stuck at the surgery, and unable to see Sherlock wearing it.

 

And, truth be told, they didn’t have sex all that often. There really hadn’t been a chance to. Sure, John had maybe thought Sherlock would let him have hours and hours with all that long, lean body, but it just hadn’t happened. There had been their first time, and one other time that had been rushed and over almost before it had begun, quick and dirty frottage up against the wall with Sherlock spinning off almost before he’d pulled his trousers back up, muttering under his breath about of _course_ it had been the downstairs neighbour. The ingrown toenail... _obvious._

 

It wasn’t like they were in a relationship really. John had very carefully shied from defining it. It might be a bit cowardly, but he hadn’t really been too fussed about attempting to stuff Sherlock into any relationship box.  Sherlock had started this as an experiment. Sherlock was adamant about not doing relationships and John... well. John wasn’t ready to push it. Friends, flatmates who shared orgasms, both seemed pretty bloody fine for him. Especially when one of the flatmates was delightfully kinky. If not him, then Sherlock would have no problem finding someone else to cross things off that list with.

 

That fucking _list._

 

The first time John had tried it had been at Angelo’s. Oh sure, he’d tried to be sneaky. Not successfully, as it had turned out. Not remotely a shock, given who John was was trying to be sneaky _towards_ , but the raised eyebrow and pointed smirk had been about as subtle as John sliding his thumb over the key bob’s remote.

 

“Really, John. In _these_ trousers? Do pay attention.”  Sherlock had taken what was for him a rather placid bite of his gnocchi and John could only duck his head and grin.  It was true. Trying to hide Sherlock’s long, hard cock - he would have had to be hard to wear the cock ring properly- in tailored trousers that absolutely left nothing to the imagination would have been a little bit on the exhibitionist side.

 

The second time had been a complete and utter cock-up, no pun intended. John blamed the monkey spleen. And is absolutely barking mad flatmate. Still, the ‘flu season had left John exhausted and bone tired, and coming home to bits of spleen in the tea kettle was really just not on.  It hadn’t taken much to realize that Sherlock wasn’t just swanning about in his usual Victorian maiden pose, but was instead shooting John these terribly intense looks under his eyelashes...

 

But sod it all, after two hours of sleep and fluids leaking from all manner of patient orifices _all sodding day_ all he wanted was his bloody _tea_ and. Monkey. Spleen.

 

The resulting fight had John slamming up to his room and Sherlock in a pouty snit for three days afterwards.

 

***

“John!”

 

John sighed, ducking his head under the water of the bath. Water filled his ears, sending Sherlock’s shout into a muffled roar, easily ignored. Sherlock had all but ignored him for the last week, aside from the brand new kettle that had appeared on the hob.  If he was being honest with himself, once he’d had about twelve hours of sleep, John hadn’t really been all that angry.  God knew that Sherlock had done worse. He’d gone downstairs around noon of the next day, ready to apologize for his temper, but Sherlock hadn’t been there.

 

He’d gone on a case without him. He’d _solved_ an entire case without him. John was busy at the surgery of course, and he told himself Sherlock was just trying to apologize in his own weird way, but it still drove home the point that Sherlock for all his brilliance and dashing about with the cheekbones and coat and all of it- he didn’t really need John as much as John... well.

 

Sherlock had made a special point of staying in his room instead of his customary place on the settee, and John had shrugged and gone about his business, figuring that Sherlock would either tell him what had crawled up his arse or tell him to find somewhere else to stay once it came to that.

 

The door to the bathroom crashed open and John jumped with a squeak, sending water sloshing onto the floor. “Sherlock! What?!” He swiped the soap out of his eyes and squinted up at the great git, frowning.

 

Sherlock was staring down at him with slightly widened eyes. John flung a bit of water at him and Sherlock jerked in place, features twisting into his customary aloofness. “A Case! Come on, John, Lestrade texted ten minutes ago, _hurry_.”

 

John slid back under the water to rinse the soap off of himself, purposely taking his time just to watch Sherlock shift impatiently from foot to foot, still in the doorway.  “No. I’m finishing my bath, thanks.” John rubbed his head with some shampoo. “You didn’t need me for the last one, and I suspect you’ll do just fine without me on this one.” John’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

 

Sherlock froze, looking hurt for a split second before nodding and turning, striding out of the bathroom and pounding down the stairs.  

 

John felt like an utter dick. He sighed so hard the water sprayed onto his toes.  “Text me the address,” he yelled as something crashed in the kitchen. There was a guilty sounding pause and a rather huffy “fine” before the front door slammed.  

 

The text arrived as John was tugging his jumper down over his stomach, giving John the address, and only the address. John frowned down at his phone feeling a little like he had missed something. Still, it was nice to have Sherlock talking to him again. John smiled to himself as he jogged downstairs to slide his feet into his shoes. There was a honk from downstairs, and John peeked out the window to see a cab waiting patiently.

 

His phone dinged.

 

          **One can only hope that this cabby isn’t as bloody awful. - SH.**

 

John knew he was fucked when he actually spent a minute staring down at the text message with a dopey grin on his face.  This was Sherlock apologizing. It was bloody _fantastic_ ; a shock to the system that lit him up from the inside.

 

Five minutes later found John in the cab. He gave the driver the address and found himself biting his lip as he waited for the driver to make it through the traffic. Sherlock was already bending over the body, his coat clutched tightly to his thin frame as he inspected the feet with his pocket magnifier.

 

Lestrade noticed John’s cab before Sherlock did, and John could tell by the way he walked that Sherlock had been somewhat less than pleasant to be around by the relieved grin on his tired-looking face.

 

“Jesus, John, I could seriously kiss you right now.”

 

John raised his eyebrows. “People would talk.”

 

Lestrade smirked. “They do little--”

 

“John!”

 

Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s interruption, but stepped out of John’s way as he made his way to the corpse. Normally a tech would hand John the booties and protective clothing so that he wouldn’t contaminate the evidence, but it was pretty obvious that Lestrade was keen on taking a break from Sherlock.

 

“Tell me what you see.” Sherlock was focused, typing away on his phone. John, now an old hand at climbing into overalls without messing up the elastic of his booties, used Lestrade’s shoulder for balance before he walked over towards where Sherlock stood, fingers flying on his phone.  

 

“Well, he wasn’t killed here.”

 

Sherlock was quiet. John stood so their shoulders brushed, ignoring the flash sense of memory of Sherlock writhing underneath him, pale skin gleaming with moonlight. He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to take in the whole scene, trying to pull his bloody mind out of the gutter.

 

John didn’t see things like Sherlock did; no one did. He generally had to start from the top and work his way down, visually, before examining anything physically. Sherlock continued to stand there, patiently, waiting for John to come to his own deductions in his own time.

 

It struck him then, that as abrasive as Sherlock often was, he did try to teach as he went. It reminded John of a doctor he knew in Afghanistan who was probably one of the most gifted trauma surgeons that he’d ever had the honour of working with- but the man was such a complete pillock that no one really bothered with him on a social level. Nurses would joke that the patients got better just so that they wouldn’t have his personality inflicted on them.  

 

With Lestrade, and sometimes even with Donovan when the two weren’t sniping at each other, John noticed that Sherlock would sometimes try to push them to find the answer themselves, as though he were attempting to teach them his own methods. When they got there, there would be an approving twitch of his lips, a minute relaxation of his shoulders. Of course, if they bolloxed it up, it was never pretty. But he did usually give them that initial chance.

 

John blinked and sighed, and just as he readied himself to speak, Sherlock gave him his full attention.

 

“He was dumped here, but arranged. No one just falls that way, so the killer wanted us to notice....” John trailed off. By necessity, he had become accustomed to gruesome crime scenes, but that didn’t make it any easier for John to accept the depravity that humans could do to one another.

 

“Yes?”

 

John licked his lips, feeling a bit like he did in primary school when he had to give a report in front of the whole class. “It’s just that the sun is shining through that pane of glass there. It looks like his head was set directly in the beam of light.” John looked up, squinting. There was enough of a wind that the clouds were blown about, leaving the sky a crisp, cold blue in the late sunlight autumn mid-afternoon.  “He has defensive wounds, but they are face down, there on the pavement. The killer... “John trailed off and squatted, touching the hand after glancing quickly up at Lestrade to make sure that they’d processed everything already. At his nod, he reached out to touch the hand with his gloved finger, ignoring Sherlock’s annoyed huff. “He or she put the hands down on purpose I think. Guilty maybe? The face is up so we can see, but everything else...”  John gestured at the crumpled way the body lay, sad looking and twisted on the pavement of the car park.

 

“Interesting. Go on.” John met Sherlock’s gaze and felt his gut give a funny leap at the intensity he found there.

 

“Assaulted?” John’s voice rose at the end of the word. He looked back down at the corpse, frowning a little in concentration.

 

“Are you asking, or telling?” Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and pulled his coat shut, buttoning it against the wind.

 

“No. I don’t think...” John couldn’t put it in words, but he didn’t get that feeling from this corpse.

 

“Correct, John. Posed, so known to his attacker. You missed the cat hair on the ankle, but that’s only to be expected. Killer possibly an older relative, likely female.”

 

“You think the killer was a crazy cat lady?” Anderson’s snide remark was like a cold splash of water over the both of them. John hadn’t even realized how he had almost turned into Sherlock’s frame, their shoulders just shy of brushing.

 

Sherlock’s face, which had for a moment actually looked faintly approving, closed down.  He didn’t bother responding to Anderson’s dig, and John felt no shame in the glare he gave the other man. Sherlock simply crouched down; pulling up the victim’s trouser leg with a small pen he kept in his pocket. Lestrade was taking notes, focused on Sherlock’s deductions.

 

“Scratches, possibly canine. Is it canine? Of course not. Obviously feline if you bother to notice the cat hair, Landican. Uncommon.” Sherlock flipped his phone so that John could see it. On it was a picture of a woman and the victim smiling at a camera with a rather snippy-looking cat posed between them. The caption read “Mr and Mrs. Wagner, 2013 Westminster Cat Show.”

 

Lestrade winced when he saw the picture, no doubt frustrated at how easily Sherlock had found the information.

 

“The Wagners were getting divorced. The only contest was custody of the cat- Scrumpulumpapuss.” Sherlock hissed the final ‘s’, lips twisting in a very low-key version of his normal sneer.

 

John had maybe been here for fifteen minutes, tops. Strangely though, there was no vicious diatribe on Lestrade getting Sherlock out of the house for this case- which had possibly been a four at best.  “One day, you’ll stop amazing me.” John shook his head, smiling at him.

 

Later, he couldn’t say what made him do it. John was taking off the protective clothing and his keys just happened to be in his hand. Sherlock was talking to Lestrade by one of the police cars, and by Lestrade’s face, Sherlock had gone back to being his normal bastardy self.

 

With a flick of his wrist, John pressed the purple button.

 

Sherlock stumbled, flinging out his hand to catch himself against the police car, every muscle in his body freezing at once.

 

“Oi! you okay, mate?” Lestrade reached out for Sherlock, unfazed when Sherlock evaded his touch almost without thinking. Lestrade raised his voice, pitching it so that John could hear him clearly. “John!”

 

John took a second to make sure that his face was completely straight before approaching them. Sherlock was already standing up, tightening the Belstaff around him once again, and it struck John then that Sherlock would have had to be hard the _entire time he was solving the case._

 

Jesus Fucking _Christ_.

 

“Alright then, Sherlock?” John stopped right on the edge of Sherlock’s personal space, unable to help the small smirk. Sherlock nodded once, the curtness of the gesture contrasting with bright pink flush standing out on both of his cheeks.

 

Lestrade looked from John’s face to Sherlock’s, and very wisely decided not to ask.

 

Despite the blush, the snotty look he gave John was pure Sherlock.  

 

Right then.

 

“I’ll just get him home. You know how he is.” John forced some semblance of a smile in Lestrade’s direction, fervently hoping that the expression on his face wasn’t screaming ‘desperately trying not to come in his pants’ to the DI.

 

In short order, Sherlock was striding towards the street, presumably to find a cab. Just because he could, John tapped the button again, assuming from the video that Sherlock had sent him that another two taps would turn it onto the next two speeds, with the fourth shutting off the plug.

 

Sherlock’s shoulders curled, his whole frame tightening. John bit his lip, imagining the feel of the plug vibrating through Sherlock’s body, the feel of it buzzing up the cord and onto the cock ring.  Sherlock would have to be careful with how he walked, the muscles in his arse would have to be carefully clenched so that it didn’t move or shift out. John tapped the button quickly, taking it down to its slowest setting.  Sherlock jumped when John grabbed his bicep, pulling him away from the kerb and onto the pavement.  He set his pace as something he thought Sherlock could handle, walking towards the nearest tube station.

 

“Oh no you don’t. If I know you, you’ve tested exactly how long that you can wear that thing.”

 

“I have.” Sherlock’s voice was slightly grittier than normal. Hearing it sent a small shiver up John’s spine that he didn’t even bother trying to hide. It was delicious.

 

“And?”

 

“The designer recommended no longer than an hour and a half.”

 

“Lovely. Unbutton your coat.”

 

“Wh-” Sherlock huffed out a breath of air, shocked into speechlessness when John hauled him into an alley, far enough in that any passer-by would probably not get an eyeful.

 

Probably.

 

It was not lost on either of them that several of NSY’s finest were only meters away.

 

“I _said_.” John tapped the button once again so that it was on the second highest setting. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes snapping to John’s. “To _unbutton_.” Another tap of the button had Sherlock’s eyelids fluttering shut, his pink lips opening in shock. “Your bloody _coat_.”  John leaned up to kiss Sherlock’s slack mouth, hard. He pushed Sherlock so that detective’s back was against the wall, stepping so that his leg was between Sherlock’s. John could feel the long, hot length of Sherlock’s cock trapped in his trousers against the press of his thigh.

 

They both groaned at the contact, Sherlock gasping into John’s mouth, pulling away with a playful bite to Sherlock’s bottom lip. He stepped away, holding Sherlock against the wall with just the palm of his hand.  The slight flush from before had travelled down the long column of Sherlock’s neck, disappearing into the white dress shirt he wore.

 

It took Sherlock two tries for his shaking fingers to unbutton the buttons on his overcoat, letting his hand sort of flop to his sides when he was done.

 

“How quickly can you get me off?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes popped open.

 

John licked his lips, loving how hard it was for Sherlock to concentrate. “Come now. I don’t have the dramatic coat to hide how hard I am, now do I?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, bemused.

 

“So the way I figure it, we have about an hour before that is going to have to come off, lest we risk damage.” John reached out to undo Sherlock’s belt and flies, pulling him from the wall slightly so that he could slide his hand down to feel the base of the vibrating plug.  It wasn’t completely soundless, but the sound had been muffled with all the layers of clothing Sherlock customarily wore.

 

John’s knuckles brushed against the silicone rings and Sherlock gave a high-pitched yip of sound, his fingers closing around John’s wrist in reaction, leaning so that his legs were stretched as far apart as he could so that John could get his hand down there. John stroked the tip of one finger around the stretched rim of Sherlock’s arsehole, raising an eyebrow at the sensation of the plug’s vibration. Jesus, just against his finger was.... “Nice.” John removed his hand and casually buttoned Sherlock back up, tucking everything into place.  “Tell me what it feels like.”

 

Sherlock let his forehead flop forward so that it rested on John’s shoulder. He shook his head, shuddering when John pressed his fingers against the hot length of his cock through the fabric of his pants and trousers. Sherlock was hard enough that John could see the outline perfectly. John tapped the button twice so that the plug went to its lowest setting.  “Tell me, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock took a deep, shaking breath and spoke, his voice gravelly in John’s ear. “Yes. About an hour, although there is a quick release if I am in any distress. The third setting is an almost constant pressure on my prostate. I have to tighten the walls of my rectum so that it stays where I want it. Before it was... difficult... to think normally.  This setting is just. There. Hovering on the outside of my awareness. Barely there, but. _Christ_ John.” Sherlock broke off, shuddering when John flicked his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s prick, pressing so that the small bit of precome that Sherlock was able to produce had soaked through the fabric. “To answer your question, I do not have enough data on how long you’d last before orgasm.  I’ve only seen your penis clearly twice and hard only once.” Sherlock dropped to his knees, carefully so the plug wouldn’t shift inside of him.

 

John blinked, nonplussed. It was true. Their first time, John had brought himself off almost as an afterthought, his attention focused on Sherlock.  Their second encounter had been frantic and rushed mutual wanks against the wall. Sherlock might have gotten an eyeful of John while he had been in the bath, but that hadn’t been a sexual context.  

 

Sherlock made quick work of John’s jeans, pulling out his cock and staring for only a moment before rubbing his cheek against the shaft. John gasped, shoving the back of his hand into his mouth and bracing himself against the alley wall with the other hand, slumping closer to Sherlock.

 

They were completely in the open, albeit in a small, rank alley. Rubbish and old clothes were strewn about and it smelled faintly of piss, which shouldn’t have been attractive at all.  But knowing that someone could walk by at any moment, that an inquisitive copper or witness to the crime scene that they’d just been on could meander by and see the way Sherlock was mouthing at the head of John’s cock sent what felt like the rest of the blood in his body directly to his throbbing dick.

 

 _Fuck_. He had to close his eyes when he felt the humid heat of Sherlock’s mouth sucking on the head before pulling off and licking at him, obviously testing what John liked best. Sherlock didn’t try to deepthroat him, instead wrapping one hand around the base and wanking him, lightly at first then harder as John spread his legs and braced himself, unable to help the tiny rocks of movement into Sherlock’s tightened fist. Each sloppy, wet sound made John’s balls tighten more, closer and closer to coming. Sherlock’s mouth finally made its way back to the head, sucking so that he was wanking John into his mouth, flattening his tongue on the underside then flicking it over the slit.

 

John made a strangled sound and tried to pull his hips away. Sherlock wouldn’t let him; gripping John’s hip with fingers that pressed tightly enough that John knew he’d be bruised the next day. John had just enough of a presence of mind to turn up the vibration on the plug before Sherlock’s fingers spasmed tightly on his hip. With the small kiss of pain John came with a low, muffled moan of Sherlock’s name, the sound lost for him in Sherlock’s heavy panting at the feel of the toy buzzing deep inside.

 

There was a beat of silence. John turned off the toy, giving his head a little shake at Sherlock’s displeased sound. With his head still reeling, John muttered “So, two minutes, then. And no, you need a moment.”

 

Sherlock snorted, turned his head and spit onto the ground which was so delightfully filthy that John couldn’t help the way his cock gave a feeble sort of twitch, still gripped in Sherlock’s fist. John pulled back, sucking in a shuddering breath as he tucked himself back in, zipping up with a slight wince of oversensitivity.  

 

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s stomach, making little twisting movements so that his cock brushed against John’s leg.  John swallowed, watching him with something like shock at actually being witness to Sherlock giving into his body’s wants. “You’re not going to get off that way.”

 

“Yes, John, thank you.”  Sherlock sounded so testy that John had to laugh, stepping back to help Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock shut his eyes, taking a deep breath, obviously trying to regain control over his body.

 

John took a step back, eyes wandering up from Sherlock’s feet, to the dirt and grit that he hadn’t yet brushed off his knees, to the obscene jut of Sherlock’s cock outlined against his thigh, made even more obvious by the small wet patch on his trousers. Sherlock was standing still except for his chest, heaving with his breathing. His nipples were hard and pressed against the fine fabric of his shirt, his neck covered with a light sheen of sweat. His normally pale skin was bright red, and his lips looked wrecked, puffy and wet. He sucked in a shuddering breath and opened his eyes meeting John’s gaze with a slow, dazed blink.

 

“Yeah?” John reached out with his thumb to brush off Sherlock’s bottom lip. “You need to stop?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock stood taller and buttoned his coat, carefully taking off the open scarf and balling it up into one of the pockets. He started to walk towards the other side of the alley, leaving John to follow. They were almost out of the alley when Sherlock stopped short. “You were heading towards the ...Tube.” He spoke slowly, drawing out each word as though the dedication was one that he could not begin to believe.

 

John just raised his eyebrows, a question and an acknowledgement at the same time.  In answer, Sherlock just turned back around and continued walking; slowing once they left the dank alley so that John could walk besides him.  John put his hands in his jacket pockets, purposefully brushing Sherlock’s arm with his elbows. His keys were in his hand, hidden in his pocket.

 

The hour was late enough that they had a bit of a wait on the platform before they could get on the train, John waiting until Sherlock had taken his first step forward before turning on the vibration again. He heard Sherlock’s sucked-in breath and revelled in it.

 

It took John a moment to catch up to Sherlock, who stood wedged into the back of the train, near the window. There were at least twenty people in the small space, and John couldn’t ignore the way his heartbeat sped up as he caught on to what Sherlock wanted. John ignored the fact that part of him felt as though he were putting on a show for everyone he’d known since primary school, stepping up so that he was right behind Sherlock, his hand pressing against the small of his back as he shifted, as though trying to find space.

 

Sherlock kept his body tense, turning so that John could only see the outline of his face, his back to the rest of the mass of humanity on the train. To their right a young woman sat intent on her phone. There was a couple already so engrossed with each other that John privately thought Sherlock could have stripped naked and started to shimmy and they probably wouldn’t have noticed.  He bit his lip and turned up the speed on the plug, eyes locked on Sherlock’s face.  They were only fifteen minutes or so from their stop, then there was the walk from the station to their doorstep before Sherlock would have any relief.

 

John was curious about how much of this Sherlock was actually enjoying. He didn’t think that he would enjoy such a constant pressure, the muscles of his arse constantly tightening and releasing around the plug as it buzzed. It seemed like it would be uncomfortable and awkward. Sherlock though could have removed it in the alley but chose not to, instead leading the way to the tube station so that he would be here; turned on and desperate in front of an unknowing audience.

 

Sherlock’s breathing was getting threadier and he turned to look at John, catching him in his intense stare for what felt like ages. John took his free hand out of his pocket and raised his eyebrows again.

 

Sherlock gave a tiny nod and stepped forward. John felt like a great pervert as he hugged Sherlock to him, in case anyone was watching, then threaded his free hand around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him so that he was against John’s waist, standing with one of his legs between John’s. John leaned forward and kissed him, a chaste brush of lips that had Sherlock grunting “bastard” under his breath.

 

They stood like that for a moment pressed close like lovers. When the train stopped for the next group of people to stumble on, John became aware that Sherlock had been rocking with the movement of the train, brushing his cock against John’s body with light, teasing touches that had to have been driving him to the limit.  If it had been John, he would have been begging to come by now.

 

John waited until they were moving again before pushing it just a little further.  The Baker Street station was only a few minutes away, thank Christ. John moved a little to block a little more of Sherlock’s body with his own and patiently waited for the train to gather speed again. This time, when Sherlock resumed the rocking movements, John turned tapped the button so that it was on its heaviest setting. Sherlock froze, his gaze whipping to John’s for an instant, before deliberately looking away.  He stretched out his arms to hang onto the pole, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tightly, unable to show any other reaction in a train full of busy Londoners commuted home from work, or play, or wherever their little lives had taken them.

 

John worked it so that as Sherlock rocked forward; he got a jolt from the buzzing plug, then turned it to the low setting when he rocked back. Finally the movement caused a small, secret moan from deep in Sherlock’s throat and John tightened his hand on Sherlock’s hip in warning. The woman on her phone kept shooting them little looks over the top of her phone, a funny little smirk on her face. John turned it off at the announcement for their stop and started to walk forward. He didn’t even care that his own cock was half hard in his jeans as he walked forward, the hand on Sherlock’s hip grabbing the detective’s wrist instead, pulling him along and out of the train car, up the steps and onto the street.  

 

“John. _Again_.” Sherlock almost growled as they walked at a fast clip towards 221, John still pulling Sherlock along behind him as though afraid he’d get lost without the guidance. Sherlock, instead of utterly disdaining the contact, seemed to crowd against John, shamelessly brushing himself against any part of John he could reach.  Finally, _Finally_ they were home. John purposefully put it on its highest setting, his own lungs working like a bellows as he hauled a moaning Sherlock up the seventeen steps to their front room, yanking Sherlock through and kicking the door shut behind him. Sherlock shrugged off his outer coat and suit jacket with a graceless movement, kicking them out of his way.

 

“ _Off_ ,” Sherlock cried out, now that he could do so without repercussions, tripping as he kicked off his shoes, flopping back onto the settee with a strangled sound as the plug shifted inside of him at the abrupt movement.

 

John followed him, desperate to see. He shut off the toy and Sherlock _keened_ , scrambling at his flies with clumsy fingers, arching up so sharply that his spine curved into something that looked hideously uncomfortable.

 

“Shh. Sherlock. Breathe. _Breathe_.”

 

Sherlock groaned and forced himself to calm down, relaxing back onto the leather cushions.

 

“Can you wait just a little longer?”  John cupped Sherlock’s face in both hands, tilting his sweaty face so that he could see him properly.

 

“I. I, yes, but I want to _come_.” Sherlock’s whine shouldn’t have made John smile. Sherlock managed to get himself out of his socks, twisting and wiggling impatiently and flinging them across the room with his toes. John bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

 

“I know. You will. God, you’ve been hard for so long.” He took his hands back, and batted Sherlock’s shaking fingers out of the way, unbuttoning and opening the dress shirt. John made quick work of Sherlock’s belt and trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping them carefully. “Up.”

 

Obediently, Sherlock titled his bum up so that John could slide off his pants and trousers together, leaving him sprawled, naked on their settee.

 

_“Fuck.”_

 

John bent to lap at Sherlock’s trapped cock, fumbling for the button to turn the toy on again on its middle setting, the one that Sherlock seemed to like the best. He had a moment to taste salt and sweat before Sherlock jerked back with a cry. “It’s too mu--. Oh. _Oh,_ please. _Please_ , John.”

 

John licked at his lower lip, pulling back so that he could push Sherlock’s long legs up so he was spread open. He didn’t touch Sherlock’s over-stimulated cock, but wanted to see what had been tormenting him for so long.

 

His balls were tight, kept away from Sherlock’s body by the rings, the leather strip connecting the cock ring and the plug stained dark with sweat. John made a mental note to clean it later as he reached out with one finger to touch the rim of Sherlock’s arse, stretched around the wider end of the base of the plug. Like this he could feel the vibrations and almost before he was thinking about it, John slowly removed it from Sherlock’s hole, watching as the muscle twitched around nothing.  Sherlock bucked and John felt his spindly fingers grasping at John’s shoulders. Before drawing it out completely, John pushed it back inside, slowly fucking him with it, focusing on pressing the base against his rim, knowing that the nerves there would be sending pulses of sensation to Sherlock’s prick.

 

Sherlock’s heels dug into the cushion as he bucked forward again, flinging his arm up to hide his face. The muscles in his thighs were trembling.  Belatedly, John realized that he had been staring down at Sherlock in stunned awe, greedily watching as Sherlock’s arse took the toy over and over.  With a flick of his wrist he turned off the plug and slowly removed it, having to hold it with his other hand so that the weight of it wouldn’t pull on the cock ring. Sherlock was right. The safety catch would be easy to press, but John waited until Sherlock’s breathing had gone from frantic to deep gasps, waiting even longer as Sherlock slowly removed his hand from his sweaty, red face, looking down at John in stunned shock. There were tears leaking out of Sherlock’s eyes.

 

John wanted to taste them, too.

 

John smiled and slipped two fingers inside of Sherlock’s arse, stopping just short of the small bump of nerves. “Ready?”  He almost didn’t recognize his own voice. It had lowered at least an octave in anticipation.

 

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip. He let go of John’s shoulder and rested his hand on the settee, trying to relax as much as he could, then reached up to hold his own cock where it had laid against his stomach. John waited, a slow count to ten before he pressed lightly against Sherlock’s prostate, releasing the catch on the cockring at the same time.

 

Sherlock _howled_ , grunting and moaning as he came, shooting come in several thick spurts that landed on his stomach and chest. He twisted, bucking again into John’s crooked fingers, one heel slipping off the couch and accidentally kicking John in the side as he twisted and shuddered, still coming, finally dribbling over his fingers and onto the couch as he collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

 

John realized that his mouth was open a little as Sherlock stared at him, dazed.

 

“Well. _That_ was tedious.”

 

He couldn’t say which of them started giggling first: Sherlock naked and covered in his own come, fucked out on his own couch, or himself, kneeling at Sherlock’s feet with his fingers still up his arse.

 

John disengaged himself and got up on shaky legs to find a flannel, absently sticking the toy onto the table next to Sherlock’s microscope.  He heard Sherlock get up behind him and turned just as Sherlock crowded him up against the counter.

 

“I-- oh.”

 

Sherlock just smirked and cupped John’s dick through his jeans, rubbing and bending to kiss John’s lips.  Sherlock was strangely tactile; pressing the full length of his sweaty, naked body against John’s clothed one, unbuttoning him and wrapping his hand around John’s length.

 

Sherlock refused to look away from him, and it didn’t take John long to come, pulling Sherlock’s mouth to his with a groan and kissing him deeply, overwhelmed by everything this mad, brilliant man had one.

 

“The next time, I want to properly see you.”

 

“N-next time?” John stuttered, still shaky from coming twice in an hour. He pulled back and licked his dry lips.

 

“Of course.” Sherlock let him go, wiping his hand on the flannel John had gotten for him and actually winking at him before he used it to pick up the toy, making his careful way back to his bedroom.

 

“Next time,” John repeated with a whisper, closing his eyes with a deep sigh.

 

There was just no telling with Sherlock.  ‘Next time’ could be tomorrow or a month from now. If he knew his flatmate at all, Sherlock was already mentally crossing out and cataloguing what he had enjoyed from the experience.

 

There were, after all worse experiments.

 

He couldn’t sodding _wait_.

  


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(Gah, I know it’s a little hard to read. Sorry)

Or you can[ see it here on my tumblr.](http://1lostone.tumblr.com/post/55258324946/with-a-flick-of-his-wrist-d) 

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As always, thanks for commenting and the concrit, either here [tumblr](http://1lostone.tumblr.com/), or [twitter](https://twitter.com/1geekgirl)!

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh fuck it all, it ended up being a casefic of sorts, to be continued in the next part(s). Regarding that, let me know which of the list you think they should do next. Everything but a threesome is on the, er.. table... for reasons that I am not at liberty to say at this time. *grin*
> 
>  **PSA ON COCK RINGS. OKAY**  
>  Okay-I can’t believe I’m typing this, but I know some of you are going to ignore the wildly kinky fictional sexcapades and focus on ~realism~. So here: there are different kinds of cock rings. One ring does not in fact, rule them all. In actuality, you should probably not wear one longer than about a half an hour, unless you are very patient and experienced. Penis Gangrene man, that’s all I’m gonna say.


End file.
